


not where it starts, but where it ends

by highboys (orphan_account)



Category: Kimi to Boku | You and I
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/highboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even twins grow apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not where it starts, but where it ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jan/gifts).



> This is more bitter than bittersweet, really, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! :)
> 
> EDIT: Ages changed, as recommended by [disownmereturns](http://disownmereturns.livejournal.com). Thank you for the beta, bb! ♥

There are two things Yuuta rarely tells Yuuki. The first is _I’m sorry_ ; the second is _I don’t know_.

 

 

 **not where it starts, but where it ends**

 

 

Outside the front door, there is a potted plant. This is the first time Yuuta will tip it over to uncover a silver house key. It is layered with a thin line of dust from months of disuse; the metal feels cool to the touch, foreign to the senses, but necessary, all the same.

Yuuta does not bother to wipe the dirt away. It has taken years of nagging duty to grow into the habit, and months of weaning to quit. He hesitates before inserting the key to the lock, but opening the door comes effortlessly; it clicks with a clean, muted sound. The only reminder of his intrusion is the imprint of soil over the knob. He will deal with it, later.

When he removes his shoes in the foyer, he also discards his socks. In the doorway, there are no slippers to greet him. There is only the telltale clutter of shoe boxes and a wayward (broken) umbrella. He trips over a cell phone strap tucked underneath the carpet, forgotten. It is probably his.

The door to Yuuki’s bedroom is open a fraction. Yuuta does not knock to alert Yuuki of his presence; he knocks because it is what is expected, as a courtesy. Yuuki is stretched out on the lone futon, oblivious to his intrusion. Once, he would have been quick to awaken. Once.

Yuuta watches him without a sound. When Yuuki makes a soft, disgruntled noise, Yuuta turns his eyes away. His fingers curl into his palm as he takes a step forward. He swallows his anxiety as he reaches for a blanket. As he tucks it over Yuuki’s bony shoulders, he passes a careful hand over Yuuki’s jaw. His knuckles feel crooked against the gentle curve of Yuuki’s cheek; it is disquieting to watch him sleep, now. When Yuuki is the quietest, it is easy for Yuuta to compare qualities. He has lived three minutes longer to Yuuki’s twenty-four years. Tomorrow, they will turn halfway to thirty. There is a difference.

A warm breath ghosts over his skin as Yuuki turns his head, and Yuuta shudders at the exhalation. He wonders if their mother ever watched them sleep like this. If she felt the same measure of relief, of insecurity. It is so strange.

The moment passes when Yuuki’s eyelashes flutter open. When they were younger, Yuuki’s eyelashes were shorter than Yuuta’s, and their mother trimmed them in the hopes of improving their length. Yuuta cannot tell if it has changed, when he does not observe his own. Yuuki stares at him with his unfocused eyes and groomed eyelashes, and makes a confused noise.

There is no truth in conjectures about the telepathic ability of identical twins. Yuuta supposes that it is only based on reading patterns and predicting responses, so he can only guess at what Yuuki means to say. Months of disuse – almost a year! – and he can still comprehend.

“Mom and dad are out,” says Yuuta. He knows they are okay when Yuuki grunts, apparently satisfied with the answer, and buries his head under the blanket. His feet poke out at the bottom. Yuuta sighs, and stands up. “I’ll go stock up the fridge, then.”

In the kitchen, he dumps the shopping bag on the table. He sets the kettle on the oven after filling it with tap water and rummages through the drawers for a bowl. When he finds one, he rinses it in the sink and sets it on the counter to dry. He peels oranges as he waits for the water to boil. When Yuuki wakes again, Yuuta will be gone. For now, he waits.

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

His phone rings, in the middle of the night.

He considers letting it ring until the caller grows tired, but the instinctive _what-if_ s begin to take their course by the fifth ring. Even before his name had appeared as Yuuki's emergency contact, the burden of being the older sibling lay omnipresent, like an unresolved haunting.

At age four, five, seventeen, the difference matters. Whether the celebration of birthdays is the same or the candles on the cake are identical, there is a difference. Combine a healthy mixture of pride and arrogance with a near-repressive sense of responsibility for it to take effect. There have rarely been cases of active rebellion in their dynamics, but sometimes Yuuta wonders if Yuuki fells the same resentment that Yuuta himself does when he tells himself, _I don't want this_.

Wanting things and never having choices tread a very thin line.

It is his mother's voice he hears, when he picks up the phone. The first few times after the incident, she had been reproachful, and their conversations stilted and tense with the remembrance of past arguments. _If only you were as patient as you used to be_ is the common trend. Yuuta considers himself to be a very patient person, but there are still points of no return when the tipping point is breached.

 _I'm not his keeper_ , he wants to say. The banalities of dyadic relationships and the trappings of kinship ties seem too much, sometimes.

Now, he barely listens to his mother's incriminations. He presses his fingers to his forehead and listens, instead, to her voice. Tries to remember a time when it turned gentle and cool, as if her children could do no wrong. It seems like a very long time, for very difficult children.

"Yuuta," his mother says, finally, after a long-winded explanation that Yuuta can only guess at, past all of the uncomfortable _um_ s and _I would be very happy if you could do this for me_ s. "Please."

Yuuta shuts his eyes, and remembers. "Okay," he says, and puts down the phone.

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

Kaname is the only person Yuuta drinks with after work. It is not for want of companions; it is only that Yuuta is afraid of the distance that widens with each new day. There is nothing to tie Kaname down to Yuuta’s circle the same way Yuuki is a constant to Yuuta’s life, unwanted or not.

They were classmates in senior year of high school, but Kaname was always closer to Yuuki. No matter how many times Kaname may gripe over Yuuki’s many faults, Kaname cares in the way that hot-cold people overtly display antagonism and tone down the affection. Yuuta and Kaname have never fought like that.

“Don’t you think we should hang out with other people?” Kaname slurs, well into the not-quite sober phase. “I’m getting tired of seeing your face.”

Alright, so perhaps it is not for lack of provocation. Perhaps it is simply because it does not feel right to usurp Yuuki’s position. Even when he really wants to. Even when Yuuki might not even care.

Yuuta takes a sip of his beer. Lets it simmer in his stomach as he pokes at the slim pickings of the appetizer in front of him.

“Of course, it’s a better sight than your brother,” says Kaname, making a face.

“Let’s not talk about him,” says Yuuta.

“Ah,” says Kaname. “Yes, let’s not address the elephant in the room.” He makes appropriate hand motions, nearly toppling over Yuuta’s beer can.

“How’s work?” Yuuta grunts out. He does not particularly care, but small talk is small talk.

“My life as a corporate drone sucks,” says Kaname. “So what else is new?”

When Kaname raises his glass to the air, it almost breaks Yuuta’s heart. It used to be funny to watch Kaname drink. Now, Yuuta understands the bitter tang that settles in his mouth, and it is not the alcohol that does it.

Yuuta wants so many things. He does not ask Kaname if he is stopped wanting more too, because he is afraid of the answer.

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

They were born at the start of summer, near the tail end of June.

For years Kaname’s temper has been attributed to the season of his birth, but the theory has been hand-waved at the mere mention of Yuuta and Yuuki. Now, though, with Yuuki glaring at the ceiling and Yuuta’s fingers clenched around the collar of Yuuki’s shirt, he begins to realize that it may not be too far off.

September winds down to a slow, lingering warmth at the edges; Kaname’s head clears and cools given time and placation, and it is a quiet sort of anger that permeates the air. June is the sudden onslaught of heat and waves of irritation, a time for parched mouths and dry throats and unsettling tension. It is near impossible to subside without intervention. Yuuki grips Yuuta’s wrist, as a warning, and Yuuta tightens his hold in retaliation.

Yuuta is twenty-four and Yuuki is twenty-four but it does not feel like it. When Yuuki’s lower lip sticks out in condescension and when Yuuta clamps down the snarl that threatens to erupt from his throat, he is reminded of the last time they fought like this, before university, and it was not Yuuki who was angrier about pulling away.

Looking at him, it is a wonder they have come this far in so long.

“You’re suffocating me,” Yuuki had said. How many times Yuuta had wanted to say the same thing but had caught himself before he did. It is not self-control Yuuki lacks, but the ability to lie.

In a moment of imprudence, he forgets to despair over it. Then he forgets the shame with repeated offences. What is dysfunctional has its origins in previous mistakes left unrectified. Yuuta barely has the patience to understand why.

“Let go,” says Yuuki. His eyebrows are raised, in mock defiance. The smoothness of his cadence is grating to the ears. So this is what Kaname feels like, half the time. “Aniki.”

 _I don’t know you anymore_ does not quite fit it. _I don’t like who you are_ sounds even worse, but more apt.

“Forget it,” says Yuuta. There is a strange sort of finality in his tone; if he were in the habit of slamming doors and breaking things, it would have sufficed. He lets go.

In his impatience, he forgets to grab his coat and his keys; no matter, he thinks. He will use the spare one, if he can remember where it is. If he will even use it. He does not look back, even after he kicks over the only proper umbrella in the apartment; he cannot bear it if Yuuki does not go after him.

Three minutes is the period of separation between their births. Yuuta remembers the dog-eared copy of his birth certificate, remembers watching his mother’s fingers fuss over the edges as she explained this fact to them. Mostly, he remembers how Yuuki seemed to change, after that; how he’d grown into a newfound role that suddenly Yuuta couldn’t reach, and it had been so easy to watch Yuuki act accordingly while Yuuta floundered behind.

(Or, perhaps, it was contrary to that; perhaps he'd floundered in his own conception of his identity, and Yuuki had simply been staying true to form. Yuuki did not have the luxury of change; Yuuta did not have the luxury of choice.)

Three minutes. He wonders when it began to stretch into years, an unreachable gap that he could not understand.

When Yuuta comes back to collect his things, Yuuki will be asleep.

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

Yuuta wonders if, sometimes, Yuuki feels an intrinsic sense of loneliness, as he does.

Stopping by the market at seven in the morning on a Sunday, brief nothings pass through his mind. If he were more sentimental, he would write them down.

Yuuki is as callow as an apple plucked before the red sets in. There is a difference between wanting the idea of the form and sinking teeth into the unripe fruit. It tastes bitter, but it appears as sweet as any other fruit before the recognition of its less desirable attributes.

Yuuki is as brilliant as they come and as slothful as they go. His palms are not hardened by labor but by neglect; his temerity mistaken for reticence because he argues in small doses. His mind is sharp but his movements are sluggish. There is no effort, no regret.

Yuuki is his favorite.

Yuuki is not the easiest person to love in the world.

He considers a pear, in his hand. Still green, in the edges. He drops it back into the basket, only to pluck it out again a few minutes later. He can afford to wait for it to ripen. At least when spring arrives, he can count on it to mature.

Yuuki, on the other hand…

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

It is a folder that ruins everything. More like: it begins with a folder and Yuuki’s irrepressible irresponsibility and Yuuta’s unsalvageable efforts and the inability of anyone to apologize.

(In reality, it has been a long time coming, but Yuuta convinces himself otherwise.)

It is not the first time they have fought. They fight over the smallest things, because they know exactly how to provoke. Nothing builds apprehension more than biting words and grudging silences. Yuuki is a master of it.

“It was just _lying there_ ,” Yuuki insists. “I wouldn’t have thrown it away if it was in your room.”

“Your consoles are always on the floor,” says Yuuta. “I don’t make it a habit of _destroying your career_.”

“Stop nagging me,” says Yuuki. “You’re not my mother.”

“Stop saving the world in your games when you can’t even fix your own life,” says Yuuta.

Tomorrow, they will fight again. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

“Let’s move in together,” is what Yuuki says after Yuuta’s graduation. Yuuta thinks it is sentimentality that makes him smile as Yuuki gives him the key to an apartment in Chiyoda-ku; it feels like a step forward after a long period of near-silence.

What it feels like is redemption; there is no greater absolution than the (unintended) admittance of helplessness and need from a person that drives you away. Yuuta is blind to many things and he has many faults but he has always been the big brother. Always.

Yuuta is twenty-three and Yuuki is twenty-three but Yuuta counts the seconds very seriously. They were equals, once, from the same womb, but the burden is greater for Yuuta, to make sure Yuuki wants for nothing else.

If Yuuki is happy, then it should suffice, shouldn’t it? Sometimes, it is easy to forget where Yuuki starts and where Yuuta ends, but Yuuta knows there should be a clear difference between them.

Kaname, of all people, gives them a potted plant as a housewarming present. It dies a few weeks later because Yuuki keeps forgetting not to give it too much water. It stays outside the apartment, daring Kaname to launch into a series of criticisms, but Kaname, to his credit, does not say a word.

Maturity changes some things. It does not remove the twitching of Kaname’s eyebrows, however, and Kaname’s lower lip turns a lovely shade of red after biting down on it while he stews over a can of chilled beer in his indignation. Yuuki spends the rest of the time baiting Kaname, and Yuuta watches them with some fascination and not a little loneliness.

A few weeks into their cohabitation, Yuuta realizes that Yuuki’s proposal is an act of pragmatism and not of love. Yuuki is not, in fact, fit for self-sufficiency. Yuuta gets used to tripping over controllers in the living room, but it does not mean that he likes it.

It is part and parcel with having a game developer for a brother. Their mother thinks it is a good direction for someone whose attention can only be retained by games, but sometimes Yuuta really wishes Yuuki would act more like an adult.

Yuuki tends to tune him out. Yuuta hates it.

There are also times when Yuuki messes around with his stuff. Years of living away from home has made Yuuta softer when it comes to the care and management of his possessions, and living with Yuuki is like triggering a dormant alarm inside him. He has lost his touch.

“Have you seen the strap Shun gave me?” Yuuta asks. It is a bright, fluffy scrap of faux feathers with beads attached at the tip, and it is one of the few reminders he has left of his friend. The thought of it is sobering and mildly depressing, and it feels like another nail to the coffin now that he cannot find it. Yuuta believes in premonitions more than rationality. This, he blames on Shun.

“Hm,” says Yuuki, too distracted by the TV screen. “Check under the carpet.”

Yuuta shakes his head, and sighs.

In retrospect, it is probably an omen of things to come.

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

They do not go to the same university together. It comes as a surprise, at first, but the shock and anger mute into a passive sort of resignation, and parting becomes easier than Yuuta imagines it would be.

(In his imagination: Yuuki will cry, because Yuuki is the selfish one, but he forgets that it was Yuuki’s choice _not_ to go to the same university.)

Instead Yuuki accompanies him to the station and offers him the smallest of smiles. He raises his hand in farewell, but that is all there is.

His social niceties _did_ need work. Yuuta learns not to let his thoughts turn to bitter, losing himself to the frenzy of a new stretch of his life known as college and, alternately, hell.

He learns to cope. He is good at adjusting to things like that, but half the time he feels as though too much of this is not a good thing, because whatever independence he gains means that there is nothing to hold him down. It makes him less reticent, more demanding.

Todai lets out for a few days after his birthday. It is always Yuuta that has to call Yuuki first to greet him, because he classes at seven and Yuuki sleeps like a drugged up patient most of the time. Shun still texts him, sometimes, but the greetings become infrequent by junior year and stop altogether at senior year. There are some relationships that cannot work without effort.

The only person he regularly sees is Kaname, even when they are in different departments. “It’s not that I even want to see _you_ , particularly,” says Kaname, even as he shoves a gift in Yuuta’s direction, and Yuuta understands that Kaname needs some permanence in his life too. It is not happiness that characterizes much of his university life, but stability despite the near-routine changes. Friends come and go, but Kaname is still there.

On the rare days that he mentions it, he gets asked what being a twin is like all the time. He gives them deliberately confusing answers, but he himself is not aware of what it really means. He does not make it a habit of philosophizing; one half of your soul does not really make up the sum of its parts.

Life goes on.

 

 

 **before:**

 

 

When they get home from school, Yuuki flops down headfirst on the mattress. Yuuta picks up his shoes after Yuuki kicks them off his feet, and Yuuta would reprimand him for it if only he had the heart to.

“I’m tired,” says Yuuki. His voice is muffled by the pillow, and Yuuta passes a hand over the back of Yuuki’s head, smoothing down an errant cowlick. The going home club seems to suit Yuuki, for all of Kaname’s protests, but if Yuuki enjoys it, at least, then perhaps it can help him in the long run.

“Sorry,” says Yuuta. He does not sound apologetic at all. “Kaname’s hard to dissuade when he’s fired up.”

“This should be a long year,” says Yuuki, without much enthusiasm. “At least Shun’s not a pain in the ass.”

“Kaname’s not that bad,” says Yuuta. “He’s just…”

“Overbearing? A hassle?” Yuuki squints at him. “I’m not sure I follow your line of thought.”

“He’s not that bad,” Yuuta insists, but it is probably Shun he is channeling. Yuuki smiles at him, fondly, like he knows.

“Think it’ll always be like this?” Yuuki asks, barely bothering to cover his mouth as he yawns. Sloth and neglect, no effort, no regret. Yuuta loves that part of him, sometimes. “It’s kinda suffocating me.”

“I don’t know,” says Yuuta, honestly, “but I can’t wait to find out.”

He pets Yuuki’s head, watching Yuuki’s eyelids droop lower. Yuuki’s hair is like straw without the fineness, but still somewhat coarse to the touch. When Yuuta raises a hand to yank at the tip of his own bangs, it feels no less different.

He continues to stroke him like he would an affectionate cat, and he does so until their mother calls and the tea is ready before he retreats. For now, he waits.

 

 

 **and now:**

 

 

There are two things Yuuta rarely tells Yuuki.

Rarely does not mean never.


End file.
